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ten, past the ruins of Unspunnen and Wilderswyl; then continuing our course along the impetuous torrent which ran on our left, whilst on the right we had almost perpendicular rocks, some bare, others covered with wood. The ravine gradually became darker and narrower, and the country assumed a wilder appearance. My guide walked on in silence; on coming to a mass of rock as large as a house he crossed himself. “What is the matter?” cried I inquisitively, and beheld with surprise a stream of black water running past the block, over a stony bed, into the Lutschine.—“That, sir, is the bad stone, and this is the bad stream,” answered my guide. “Here the Baron of Rothenflüh killed his brother for the sake of his property, and then fled, and wandered about without house or home, till he died miserably and left nobody behind him; so that his name became extinct with him for ever.” I beheld in imagination the fratricide washing his brother’s blood from his hands in the white foam of the rapid Lutschine, and then, smarting under the lash of conscience, hurrying away, and leaving his peace of mind for the rest of his life behind him in the awfully wild valley. I shuddered at the picture, and hastened from the murderous scene.

From Zweilutschinen a bold bridge conducts to the Iselten Alp. Here the Black Lutschine, from Grindelwald, and the White Lutschine,